


Impregnable

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, If only they'd done this in series 1, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3815932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having moved in with the scintillating Sherlock Holmes has not exactly solved all of John Watson's problems - now he's hard up for cash AND constantly feeling like he's missing something. All the same, John bends over backwards (though not literally, more's the pity) to help Sherlock unravel the mystery of the Black Lotus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impregnable

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so they didn't get it together in A Study in Pink, but there's still time before it all turns to custard. There were plenty of opportunities in The Blind Banker as well.
> 
> Second attempt at writing a fic.

His life was supposed to be so much better now.

No more bedsit, no more cane, no more appalling monotony… surely all of that was supposed to be behind him now? And yet here he was, at the shops, carefully scanning a head of lettuce, and scanning it again, and being blandly derided by the dispassionate voice of the chip-and-pin machine. (God, she was worse than ‘Anthea’. ) To make matters worse, his card was rejected, and the computerised woman’s voice announced it for all to hear. (Where the hell was the volume control on these things?)

And John _knew_ that nobody cared, that he was the only one in the shop who gave a shit that his bank account was empty _again_ , but he could not combat the feeling of being scrutinised and _judged._ He abandoned his shopping and fled the shop, knowing he was acting like a toddler,  and feeling like an idiot.

And feeling like a fool, also. Fool. Chump. Sap. Sucker. He had words from every corner of the Commonwealth with which to abuse himself. There was Sherlock, sitting serenely in his chair, exactly where he’d left him, looking crisp and collected, and John _still_ had the feeling that Sherlock was keeping something from him, that he was somehow having more _fun_ than John. And meanwhile, John did the shopping (or not, in this case). In his present mood, it was intensely aggravating.

Because, actually, Sherlock was being really quite accommodating of his bad temper.

“You had a row…with a machine?” When John thought about just how caustic Sherlock could be with people when they weren’t behaving rationally (which was usually), this was rather mild. He was hardly sneering at all. “Take my card,” he said amenably, and continued to sit there equably while John groused at him for his inactivity.

It occurred to John to wonder why Sherlock was in such a good mood. As usual, he got the impression that he was missing something, but then, with Sherlock, he always was.

He was still annoyed by the time he trudged back up the stairs to 221B. Sherlock had moved from his chair to the desk but was making no further move, certainly not to help him with the shopping. It wasn’t because he hadn’t noticed him, either; he’d likely deduced the number of bags John was carrying the moment he walked through the door, and probably the brand of milk he’d bought by the time he reached the top of the stairs. Sherlock deduced _everything._ He just never reached the “perhaps John would like some help” kind of conclusion. It was not a hard enough fact to register for Sherlock. John’s computer password, on the other hand…

His rational self knew he was only really stressed about the money. Getting a job was _dull_ , he could not disagree with Sherlock on that point, but he needed the money, and Sherlock insisted on rejecting cases unless they were interesting. What did that man do for money, anyway? And if he was skint enough that he needed a flatshare, why wasn’t he more concerned with cash flow?

Having to ask Sherlock for a loan twisted John in a thousand ways. He did not want to have to do it. He would lance boils and prescribe haemorrhoid cream from here to breakfast time if he could only avoid it, but some of these bills would not wait.

***

John was projecting all over the flat. Little sighs, noises of annoyance, sarcasm… Sherlock was of course highly adept at feigning obliviousness, but deducing John’s anxiety was, in this case, impossible to avoid. A row with the chip-and-pin machine? Not put out by mad chases across the rooftops, but nettled and provoked by a recalcitrant piece of technology? The evidence slotted into place with no effort on Sherlock’s part: John placed a great deal of importance on his own independence and pulling his own weight. He disliked asking for help. His moral sense would require him to meet his financial obligations, so a reminder at the shops that he was currently unable to do so would vex him out of all proportion. Hence his irritation at Sherlock for merely sitting and reading, and being pleasant to him – looking for someone to blame. Not in character – John was highly responsible - therefore clearly he was anxious. Had now snatched his computer away from Sherlock (completely unreasonably) and was making more uneasy noises while sorting through the post – overdue bills, mainly.

Conclusion: John was going to ask him for money. He had no income apart from his pension and whatever he earned as Sherlock’s assistant. Sherlock had just refused to a case that would have brought in a solid sum.

And now Sebastian Wilkes had a case for him. Just at the right moment, it seemed. The case was sure to be _dull_ – wait, had he said that out loud? And Sebastian Wilkes was insufferable. But John hated to have to ask him for money and so John must not be required to ask. Sherlock made up his mind.

“I have to go to the bank,” he announced, cutting across John’s words.

He was silent the whole way there. He observed himself on the way to take on a boring case and spend time with a man who had always belittled him at every opportunity. He was choosing to do this in order to save John’s pride. There was no other possible motivation. He was willingly setting himself up for a negative experience, and he was doing it for John, a man he’d met only recently. This was so far out of character that it occupied his full attention for the duration of the trip.

***

John still didn’t know if Sherlock had heard him begin his request for a loan. He assumed he had, since they were heading to the bank, but he couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t actually completed his question. It was just as likely that this jaunt was completely unrelated. John found himself hoping so. His mood began lightening as soon as Sherlock’s coat had whirled through the air and he’d sped out of the flat after his flatmate without so much as a second thought. That flourish of the Belstaff ought to have been ridiculous; for anyone else, it would have been. For Sherlock, it fit. Sherlock showed no more inclination than usual to explain himself or their errand, instead staring out the window of the cab. John allowed his eyes to rest on his companion and his worries about money retreated for the time being.

And _God_ you had to admire the man’s arrogance and assurance. He strode into the bank (if you could call it a bank; Barclay’s never looked like this, at least not the branches he’d ever visited) as if he owned the place. John was no fainting flower, and no one would ever say he was easily intimidated by glass and steel and well-groomed receptionists. Still, he was impressed with the way Sherlock stepped up to the desk, not waiting to be addressed, and gave only his name, with the poised assurance (shared by the very rich and powerful, and the completely audacious) that everything else would fall into place now that they knew who he was. And it did. It always did. Cabs stopped, wheels turned – Sherlock was adept at allowing the people around him to mould circumstances according to his wishes. And it always worked.

***

Sebastian Wilkes began irritating Sherlock right away. He hadn’t really expected anything else – so many people were so dreadfully annoying that he rarely even registered it anymore. Sebastian, though, was particularly patronising (that much hadn’t changed), and smiled through all his smarmy comments and insinuations as if he was doing everyone a favour by condescending to speak to them. When he shook Sherlock’s hand, he covered their clasped right hands with his left as well – a sign of warmth between friends, but from Sebastian it was barely disguised dominance, and Sherlock found his touch distasteful, even with his gloves on. It didn’t matter, though, because he had solved the problem that had preoccupied him the whole way over ( _why he was so willing to put himself out for John Watson)_ and he was about to test his hypothesis.

“This is my friend, John Watson.” He couldn’t help the emphasis on _friend._ It wasn’t a word he used very often. He waited to see what would happen.

“Friend?” Incredulous and suggestive. Insufferable.

John: “Colleague.” He shook hands as well.

 _Colleague._ They’d been _colleagues_ when he’d first introduced John to Sally Donovan. Surely they’d progressed since then? Sherlock had – but then, John had killed a man to protect Sherlock from his own morbid curiosity, and had laughed with him afterwards. For Sherlock, that had been staggering. Perhaps it was not so remarkable for John Watson. Not friends, then. Faulty hypothesis. More data required. Tightness in throat – should dissipate momentarily. Ah, there.

***

 _John Watson is a dick._ John was not as observant as Sherlock Holmes but he wasn’t blind, and he was watching Sherlock fairly carefully. _Colleagues._ He knew – who better? -  that Sherlock did not have friends, and yet he’d been so clear, so emphatic. “My _friend._ ” And John had swung into his not-that-kind-of-friend defense mode without even hesitating. He’d _denied_ him. To this plonker, no less. He would gladly have bitten his own tongue off. Because Sherlock would never ask about it, and he would make his deductions, and he would never, ever make the same _mistake_ again.

Despite  Sherlock’s confidence and self-possession, which John had been admiring moments before, John felt like he had just kicked a puppy. And there was nothing he could do to take it back.

The more Wilkes talked, the worse John felt. He’d called Sherlock in because he needed help, and clearly this bothered the man, because he set about systematically cutting Sherlock down, making him feel as small as possible, always with that smile.

“This freak…We all hated him.”

How dare he? How _dare_ he? And _this_ was the man to whom John had denied friendship with Sherlock, out of fear of being misconstrued. He glanced over at Sherlock, saw his face flicker. _Sociopath my arse._ He felt like he might be sick.

But Sherlock set to work, and John could only trail after him, asking the odd question, doing his best to keep up. He marvelled at how tightly contained Sherlock was – there’s no way he didn’t think Wilkes was a wanker (it was obvious), but his mind was on the job now. The only bad moment was when Sherlock looked set to refuse Wilkes’ cheque (out of petulance, perhaps, or to prove a point), but this time at least John had the presence of mind to intervene.

***

Sherlock was backpedalling. Back to first principles. John thought his powers of deduction were ‘extraordinary’ so he fell back on those, outlining what he’d worked out about Wilkes’ watch (astute of John to know how he felt about Wilkes) and about Van Coon, based on the position of the pillars. Not friends. Colleagues. Associates, really. Sherlock needed an assistant and John needed – _excitement –_ a job. Do not expect from John what you might expect from a friend (whatever that was). John was impressed, not annoyed, when Sherlock showed off, so he went ahead.

  *          Neighbour upstairs: just moved in. _Confirmed over intercom. Make sure John noticed. Yes._
  *          Adorably inept sweet neighbour, locked his keys in his flat. Not a bad performance.
  *          Don’t let John into the flat. John has made it clear that he does not wish to be admitted.
  *          John can come in when the police arrive. A nasty touch. Justified. _Colleague._
  *          Van Coon was left-handed. Shot in the right side of his head.
  *          Deduction: Murder



_Only_ explanation of _all_ of the facts. He flicked his eyes at John. This was what he wanted, after all. To see his brilliant _colleague_ at work.

Back to dealing with Sebastian Wilkes, but Sherlock was not going to be wrong-footed again, and came out swinging. The news of Van Coon’s death was sure to get out soon, so Sherlock felt no compunction in being the bearer himself. Of course Wilkes wouldn’t want his cronies to hear the news in this way, and the threat of having him hauled into NSY for questioning had just the effect Sherlock had been hoping for. Wilkes actually ran a finger around the inside of his collar like a nervous character in a cartoon. It was divine.

It almost went pear-shaped when Sebastian received a text telling him Van Coon had committed suicide, and Sherlock was left as the sole naysayer _again._ But then John, glorious John, after Wilkes began to flounce out but before the door closed behind him, put his oar in, “And I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards.”

It didn’t make a dent for Sebastian, that was certain. But it warmed Sherlock’s heart anyway. _Friends?_ _Colleagues?_ None of the explanations fit with all of the facts.

***

Sherlock was being damnably hard to read during this case, although John didn’t know why that should surprise him. As much as Sherlock seemed to think everything he did was _obvious_ and _logical_ , he continued to confound John’s attempts to understand him. He occasionally declared himself to be a sociopath, but that was usually to bully people, to frighten them, to put them off, or to annoy them. John didn’t know if Sherlock really considered himself a sociopath, and he himself was not a psychiatrist, but he had seen enough evidence of Sherlock’s emotional responses to profoundly question the diagnosis. Sherlock’s feelings were suppressed, yes, denied, schooled into submission, excised whenever possible, but to anyone who spent any time at all observing him (which John did, almost constantly),they were obviously present. Sherlock could be a cold, rude, insensitive bastard, he could tear people down with a look or a sneering deduction, and he usually lacked any sign of the most basic empathy – and then suddenly he would be kind, or funny, or disarmed by honest praise, and he became so _human._ John had begun to live for those moments.

The joke of it was that John was the one who had wound up with an Anti-Social Behaviour Order – who was the sociopath, again? He was angry about that, but his anger paled in comparison to his general bewilderment about his flatmate’s behaviour.

He did not know what Sherlock wanted from him. As a partner (assistant?) or as a flatmate or as anything else. He’d made it abundantly clear that first night that there were certain kinds of attention he _did not want_ , from John or from anyone else, so John had shut that door quite firmly in his own mind. He kept it shut, too. The fact that Sherlock smiled at him in a particular way, or watched him carefully, or glanced at him for approval at crime scenes… if he laid his hands more often on John than on other people (with whom he usually avoided contact of any kind), well, there were dozens of explanations for that, explanations that were perfectly consistent with his being married to his work. John told himself he did not interpret these signals in any other way. If there was some wishful thinking, well, that wasn’t evidence. He didn’t need Sherlock Holmes to tell him that.

And of course the most obvious explanation is that Sherlock was willing to be his friend. Mycroft had indicated that Sherlock didn’t have friends, and Sherlock himself seemed to take some pride in the truth of this. And yet he’d introduced John to Sebastian Wilkes as his friend, and wilted in his undetectable Sherlock way when John had denied him.

Was that to be his only chance? Was Sherlock punishing him now, keeping him out of Van Coon’s flat, giving him no privileged access at all, only what he allowed Detective Inspector Dimmock? Had John unintentionally banished himself from Sherlock’s  affection (attention, he meant attention) for good? _That’s not fair,_ his inner toddler opined, but John was fairly certain Sherlock did not worry about fairness when managing his relationships.

On the whole, for a slew of practical and personal reasons, it would be better if John got some distance. Time to start that job, at the very least. Lots of scope there.

***

It was easier than he’d expected to push John away, and to keep him at a more sustainable distance. He must have miscalculated. Not friends.

And of course, how could they be, when Sherlock’s brilliance clearly outstripped anything of which John was capable? Or anyone else, of course, but Sherlock had been briefly deluded into thinking John was somehow unique, and he now bent his efforts to demonstrating that this was patently false. Demonstrating to himself, of course, but he couldn’t help it if John happened to reach the same conclusion.

He began right away in Van Coon’s flat, to which he easily gained admittance with a bit of shamming (and some gymnastics on the balcony). John could find his own way in. Or not. He wasn’t needed.

Sherlock let him get picked up for _Anti-Social Behaviour_ , too. The conviction wouldn’t stick. Sherlock felt a bloom of dark satisfaction (completely unmixed with shame) when John made his way home hours later to be greeted with Sherlock’s disinterested, “You’ve been a while.” He trusted the message was clear by now: _I don’t need you._

But he did, God help him. He could piece together Eddie Van Coon’s movements during his final days using scraps of receipts and Tube tickets, but it took John Watson with the address in a diary to show him the final step. No magic deductions.  And then, when he was under attack in Soo Lin Yao’s flat, John was the one he needed. He tried to call out to him for help, but he was choking and couldn’t speak, and he hadn’t let follow, hadn’t let John in, despite John’s pleas, so John couldn’t help him. Didn’t even know he was in danger. Assumed that Sherlock was just shutting him out on purpose to prove a point. Which he had been, and now he couldn’t breathe. There was a metaphor in there somewhere. (Metaphors aren’t data.)

He still didn’t answer his phone when John rang him.

***

John knew he’d seen the cipher. He’d taken a photograph. He was about to say as much to Sherlock but then his mind went blank as he felt two large, gloved hands close around the sides of his head.

Sherlock was holding his face, filling his vision, fixing him with a penetrating stare.

“Close your eyes.” A command. But they were already closed. Sherlock’s next words were drowned out by the pounding of John’s blood rising in his ears, which Sherlock must surely feel, even through his gloves. Sherlock’s hands were on him. Sherlock’s arms were steering his body. Sherlock’s voice was commanding him. It was stunning. John’s eyes opened wide now, staring back at Sherlock in a daze. He didn’t know where this had come from but right now he didn’t care, he was ready for whatever –

It was for the case. Of course it was for the case. _Maximise my visual memory_. Jesus. _I’m an idiot._ Humiliated, he broke free from Sherlock’s grasp and showed him the picture on his phone. _Here, you bastard. This is what you want._ He moved away, panting. Aching. With luck he was sufficiently invisible to Sherlock for him not to notice. Who was he kidding? He was completely invisible to Sherlock.

And then, and _then,_ and THEN, when he’d stayed up most of the night, not dropping into bed as soon as they were back at the flat, but staying with him, being nothing more than some sort of _sounding board,_ offering nothing. Sherlock talked to him all the time when he wasn’t even there, why did John suppose he suddenly needed to _be_ there? _That door is closed. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t need you – he could talk to his skull. Go to bed. Maybe you’ll be over him in the morning._

And then off to the museum again. To discover Soo Lin Yao’s hiding place. To meet her, and hear her gentle voice (quiet, resigned) explaining why she was so sure she would be dying shortly. John listened to her story with mounting horror. Soo Lin’s courage confounded him. No one had ever protected her, cherished her, kept her safe, and yet she was dedicating what she believed to be her final hours to the painstaking care required by her teapots. It was devastating. Even Sherlock appeared to be moved by her tale.

_Thank God we got to her in time. They won’t get her now. We’ll catch the murderer and she’ll be free._

Then the lights went out.

Sherlock straightened, emotions forgotten, and in a flash was off in a chase.

John’s determination to defend Soo Lin lasted until the shots rang out. Then he left her –

 _He left her._ In a safe place, but _he left her._

To her death.

He didn’t even hesitate, but left her to her death.

 To go and help Sherlock.

Who couldn’t even always be bothered to answer his calls.

And then back home to sort through books all night. With Soo Lin dead and Sherlock... doing what Sherlock did best. And John going along with it. Distance. Yeah, he’d done great at that.

The next day, John asked Sarah out on a date.

 

***

“We need to get some air. We’re going out tonight.”

“Actually, I’ve, uh, got a date.”

“A what?”

“It’s when two people who like each other go out and have fun.”

“That’s what I was suggesting.”

“No, it wasn’t. At least I hope not.” _Because that’s no way to ask me out, first of all, and if you were asking me out then a whole lot of my assumptions are wrong, and I will have to break my date with Sarah, and things will get very complicated, very quickly. Because then I will kiss you very, very hard._

Sherlock seemed to be hearing rather a different subtext, one that led to the question he seemed to think was obvious: “Where are you taking _her_?”

 (Why did Sherlock assume his date was with a woman? How did he deduce that, when John had been making such a fool of himself panting over Sherlock? What possible sign could he be giving? The man was incredible.)

 

***

 

John wanted  to bring a _stranger_ on a case with them. Ok, he wanted to call it a date, and might not strictly speaking have realised that they were _on_ a case, but honestly. How was it that Sherlock could keep his own body under perfect control for the entire duration of a case, requiring neither sleep nor sustenance, and still function at peak performance, and John couldn’t even refrain from trying to copulate?

Sherlock had to get his attention back. Back to the case, obviously. A few murmured comments low in John’s ear sufficed to have him focused on Sherlock, glancing at him every so often when he ought to have been focused on _Sarah_. Fine. Good.

But _Sarah_ was flirting with John. She was _flirting_ with John. There, she’d done it again. Touching him. Giggling at him. Oh, dear god, now she was grasping his arm. It was outrageous. He leaned over and whispered some commentary, noting with satisfaction that she moved further away from John every  time Sherlock spoke. Still, she kept moving back again.

Insupportable. Sherlock had some investigating to do. He slipped out.

By the end of the evening, Sherlock was at his wits’ end, trying to advance in his investigation _and_ keep John focused on the case, while John and Sarah were clearly intent on having their _date._ In fairness, it wasn’t as if Sarah was particularly objectionable. Reasonably intelligent, by normal standards, friendly, attractive, obviously heterosexual. Attracted to John. Persisting in being pleasant with Sherlock long after the point where most people gave up. And a bit _badass_ as well, he conceded, given that she’d run across a circus ring to whack a dangerous smuggler repeatedly with a stick and prevented Sherlock from receiving a further pummeling. That had been fairly decent of her. All right, and the help with the code.

All in all, she might potentially be a reasonable match for John. _It was unbearable._ Sherlock found the perfect out and fled the flat in a turmoil.

Sherlock was on a case. He didn’t need to eat, he didn’t need to sleep, and he certainly didn’t need to get mired in _jealousy_ over a man who wouldn’t even condescend to be called his _friend._ He did need John. He did want John.

Sherlock did feel things – John must know that. The longer he went without sleep, the harder it was to hide. That morning in the bank he’d barely betrayed a flicker when John had disowned him, but by last night in the museum, listening to Soo Lin speak, he’d struggled to suppress his tears. If he’d had John closer, John could have anchored him, kept him connected to reality, but without him he was afloat. Without John, Sherlock always took more chances, went for the showy deductions, the convoluted explanations. Without John, Sherlock always got into the metaphorical cab. Without John, Sherlock always took the pill. John always knew when to just take a photo or read a diary or shoot unwaveringly through a window and straight into a man’s heart when it was called for.

Sherlock’s heart had been similarly affected. And up until that morning at the bank, he’d thought…

…he’d thought maybe John wanted him too. Surely he could see that whatever Sherlock had said to him that first night at Angelo’s had been a line, standard and oft-repeated, to put off dull people and save everyone the trouble, and _how could he have known_ how extraordinary his little blond doctor would turn out to be? He _needed_ John.

And now,  there he was, finishing his date with Sarah, leaving Sherlock heading alone into who knew what kind of danger, because he’d hurt Sherlock’s feelings and Sherlock had shut him out entirely. He was having to wrestle his hurt and despair to try to clear a space for thinking about _the case._ What an abhorrent distraction. This was infinitely worse than eating.

And it didn’t make it _any better at all_ when Sherlock discovered that John was the one in danger after all.

But there was Sherlock’s focus restored, concentrated with laser accuracy. _John_. He didn’t need to solve the case, he needed to get to John.

***

 

“…You know how it ends.” Sherlock heard voices at the end of the tunnel. A woman’s voice. Shan – the general?

Then – gloriously alive – John’s voice. Desperate and full of rage. “I’m not Sherlock Holmes.” John. Sherlock did not struggle for calm; It permeated his whole mind as soon as he heard that voice.

“I don’t believe you.”

It was time to make himself known. “You should, you know.” Sherlock stayed out of sight. “Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him.” It was true. He almost laughed. And now one of the henchmen was chasing him blindly. He kept talking.

“How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?”

“Late?” John’s voice again. John Watson, who could always be counted on for sheer cheek in the face of danger. Sherlock had to stop himself from giggling. He was primed now, one henchman knocked out, John alive and still John. Sherlock let instinct take over.

***

Sarah was home. No, she did not want them to stay with her. She called a girlfriend. She hugged John goodnight, but both John and Sherlock understood it to be a we-almost-died-together kind of hug rather than a prelude-to-eventual-sex kind of hug. She hugged Sherlock, too, which he accepted with stoicism.

Back at the flat, John and Sherlock sat facing each other in their respective chairs over a cup of tea. It was late and they were both exhausted, but it had been a difficult evening. Neither was prepared to be alone just yet. Both were relieved not to have to ask for company.

Sherlock broke the silence, uncharacteristically.“Sarah seems...nice.” He managed not to sneer the word _nice_ , but it was a near thing.

“Yes. She is. She certainly bore up well tonight.”

“Indeed. Are you going to see her again?” His gaze was fixed somewhere on the carpet.

“Well, yes, at the surgery.” John paused. “I think tonight surpassed all other candidates in the “worst date” category. It’s unlikely she’ll be interested.”

“But you are?”

John hesitated. “I’d be crazy not to be. She’s great.” He did not say _yes._

They lapsed back into silence.

“John,” Sherlock began, at the same time that John said, “Sherlock.”

Another pause, then John went ahead. “Two things.” Another hesitation, then straight into it, all in a rush. “One: I’m sorry I didn’t realise quicker what a complete prick Sebastian Wilkes is. You called me your friend. I’m sorry I fucked it up. I want you to do that again.”

Sherlock’s mouth was open. He hadn’t slept in a few days, or he would have been quicker to deny any knowledge of what John was on about. He would have looked baffled and incredulous and maybe said, “I don’t _have_ friends” and been all in all completely devastating. John would never have dared bring it up again. But he was tired, and this was close to home, and if he slammed the door again, John would never, ever want to open it.

He closed his mouth. Opened it again and said, “All right. I... all right. Ok. Yes. Thank you.”

The two men exchanged a long look. There was some warmth in it. It was getting warmer all the time. It was getting harder to breathe.

In the midst of the rising storm, Sherlock (not breaking eye contact) spoke. “You said there were two things.”

“Yes.” John had already mustered well beyond his usual share of honesty, but he set his shoulders and pressed on. “It’s about Sarah.” He saw Sherlock’s face cloud over, saw the change in the tilt of his head as his guard came up. “No, listen.”

“I am listening.”

“You didn’t want me dating her.”

“I needed you for the case.”

“No, you didn’t. You don’t need me.” John stopped, not looking at Sherlock. He was going to have to spit it out. “But look, I am too involved. And as long as you don’t want me, I will need to date other people.” There. Let him deduce everything he had to. It was all said.

“As long as I don’t want you?” Sherlock was staring at him, he could feel it. He did not look up.

“You heard me perfectly well. I’m not saying it again.”

“As long as _I_ don’t want _you?_ ”

 It wasn’t like Sherlock to repeat himself. John risked a glance –

\- and was carried away by the naked _emotion_ on Sherlock’s face.

“You’ve just decided that’s the case, have you?” Sherlock hurled himself to his feet and began pacing the flat.

“I haven’t just ‘decided’, Sherlock. You told me yourself. You’ve been clear about not being interested since the first day we met.”

“Wrong. Again. I was clear about not wanting you _on_ the first day we met. A few things have changed since then, wouldn’t you say?”

“Have they? It wasn’t just then. You’ve been shutting me out this whole case. It’s fine, Sherlock, I told you, it’s all fine. I just...” He had no idea how to finish that sentence. Sherlock’s face was working furiously.

“John, just for a moment, will you please _think?_ You’ve got a solution that you like but you’re choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn’t comply with it.”

John started to smile, but Sherlock was gaining momentum.

“In fact, all of your so-called _evidence_ for me not wanting you either comes from one conversation that happened _before_ I knew anything about John Watson, or is based on things I did out of _pique_ and _dejection_ because you hadn’t let me call you my friend.”

“Pique?” John’s smile began to bloom. He rose to his feet and turned to face Sherlock as he roved around the lounge.

“Obviously. Which you would know if you bothered to think about it.”

John pondered a moment. “I – I see, but I don’t observe?”

A ghost of a smile flickered past Sherlock’s face. Impossible to see, but John saw. “Exactly.”

“So... what _do_ you want?”

Sherlock took a step forward and stood, just inside of John’s personal space, and stilled, his gaze never wavering from John’s face.

“You know my methods,” he rumbled. “Apply them.”

John applied his mouth instead, holding Sherlock’s jaw firmly as he kissed and kissed and kissed Sherlock’s gently parted lips. This time, Sherlock let him in.

***

The next day, at the bank, John collected the final cheque from Sebastian Wilkes. He then strode over to where Sherlock was emerging from Amanda’s office. He made sure there was line of sight between the pillars from where he stood to Wilkes’ desk, and gathered Sherlock in for a decisive snog.

It was better than being friends.

**Author's Note:**

> The transcripts of Ariane DeVere have been very valuable to me in writing these. While I do most of my "research" clicking back and forth in the actual episodes, it is so helpful to be able to double-check wording, order of events... lots of things, really. Thank you for all your hard work, Ms. DeVere.  
> http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/
> 
> I'm on tumblr too... http://hubblegleeflower.tumblr.com/
> 
> Please let me know what you think.


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